The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard: Library of America Special Edition

by Ron Padgett

  * * *

  At the museum now looking at Upside Down Ada, one of my all-time favorites.

  * * *

  How Alex all these years has remained so pure is beyond me.

  * * *

  Other all-time favorites are Impala (1968), Bather (1959), Donald and Roy (1965), Private Domain (1969), Joe 1 (a cut-out of me six times), the Frank O’Hara cut-out, and Self-Portrait with Sunglasses (1969).

  * * *

  As slight headache continues I’m having a hard time (upstairs among the permanent collection now) seeing individual paintings individually. Even Pollock and de Kooning, today, seem dusty and a bit sad. (Old hat.)

  * * *

  Just can’t seem to get beyond the big gold frames today. (Old Masters.) Which reminds me how extroverted Alex’s paintings are by comparison. So easy to look at, as they come out and meet you half way.

  * * *

  A Goya with one of his large beautiful neutral areas of “no color in particular” that neither recedes or comes forward is the only painting upstairs that really touches me today.

  * * *

  Slight headache continues as I sit on beige carpeted steps waiting for Anne and Pat to come out of the Ladies’ Room. What I need is a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

  * * *

  The old lady in the museum gift shop says she knew Wallace Stevens. And that one shouldn’t believe everything one hears about him. (In response to Ron’s saying that he was an old grouch.)

  * * *

  On our way now to look up Wallace Stevens’ house. Such a pink sky. The Capitol building has a gold dome.

  * * *

  As we pass the insurance company Wallace Stevens worked for Ron says it “looks like” his (Stevens’) poems.

  * * *

  “Asylum Apartments” (a new high-rise) gets a big laugh.

  * * *

  Well, a chuckle.

  * * *

  As we only know the street and not the house number, we’re having a hard time figuring out which house it is. We ask several people but nobody even knows who Wallace Stevens is.

  * * *

  Found it finally. A big white house with gray shutters partly hidden by many bushes. (118 Westerly Terrace.) Anne rang the bell and asked if this was the house. (“Yes.”) “A very rude lady,” Anne said, when she got back to the car.

  * * *

  On our way to check out Mark Twain’s house Anne (reading a guide book) says that there used to be twenty publishing houses here. Pat adds that the first American cookbook was published here.

  * * *

  “There should be a fairly visible house up here somewhere,” Ron says. (Apropos Mark Twain’s house I suppose.) But no, we continue on.

  * * *

  We found it just in time to grab some postcards. From the outside, in the dark, it looks exactly like the house one would imagine Mark Twain would have lived in.

  * * *

  We are heading back to N.Y.C. now, by mistake (a wrong turn) looking for a way to turn around. We pass a big factory building with a beautiful Russian-looking blue and white dome with a white horse on top. “A glue factory, maybe,” Ron says.

  * * *

  Heading back to N.Y.C. again, but this time on purpose. Smoking dope. The radio is on. After dinner in a sort of Greek-German (German mostly) restaurant called “The Marble Pillar.” (A small marble pillar is in the front window among many other unrelated objects.) “A lot of lawyers eat here late at night,” Ron said. Where he got his information from I didn’t ask, tho I almost did. We began with very gray and very greasy potato pancakes with applesauce. I said, “What the fuck!” to myself and had my first Bloody Mary since hepatitis. And sole. Pat had sole too. Anne, bluefish. Ron, bluefish. And Michael, turkey. And for dessert Anne had cherry pie with maple walnut ice cream on top.

  Over dinner we discussed what a tough painting Alex’s Lawn Party is. (How “hard to like” it is.) My theory being that, like a painting by Pollock, it must be seen as a whole in order to be seen at all. As tho, out of the bushes, you stumble onto this lawn party by mistake, a total stranger. (As opposed to being at the lawn party.) Or something like that.

  And we talked about the big Paul Taylor and Company painting Private Domain. (Anne and Pat and Ron find it hard to like and I love it.) And I explained my theory about how it must be seen as an “abstract” painting before one can see it realistically. (That, at least, is how I got over the hump towards liking it.)

  And we talked a lot about how “logical” Alex’s development as a painter is: a straight line to clarity. With only possibly the paper collages and the cut-outs being “side trips.”

  * * *

  We just passed three “Land-Sea” trucks one at a time.

  * * *

  We are turning off now to go see some old friends of Anne’s. (New Haven.) Looking for George Street, which we just ran into without really looking for it. But it was a one-way street the wrong way so now we seem to have lost it.

  * * *

  We finally found it but a girl said the people we were looking for moved out the day she moved in so now we are sitting in the car outside a telephone booth while Anne is trying to find out where they live now. (Why am I telling you all this?)

  * * *

  Tea and cookies from an aunt with Kim Hunter’s daughter and her husband, who looks a bit like Jim Morrison. (Both are lawyers.) Very nice. Their big-for-his-age son pretty much occupied himself with a large set of Christmas drums he didn’t quite know what to “do” with. Anne did most of the talking, as we were tired. Two stuffed negro dolls lay on the floor with no faces.

  * * *

  The 25¢ Michael dropped in the toll box didn’t make the green light go on so we all quickly rolled down our windows (having just smoked a joint) but nobody came over, and nothing happened, so we drove on.

  * * *

  Silence inside the car now. The night is so black and the lights are so white. As we nearly end our trip. “The End” in the air.

  * * *

  Michael, afraid we might not quite have enough gas just turned off somewhere in New Jersey—a series of closed gas stations—but here we are now, getting one dollar’s worth.

  * * *

  New York City looks pretty good over there. When I see the city from far away I like to try to imagine someone I know in the city, in their apartment, doing whatever they might be doing. It’s a hard place to believe you live in if, at the moment, you don’t.

  Tuesday, December 30th, 1971

  That Kenward is the only person I can sing in front of, IS “love” tonight, even if it isn’t.*

  1972

  Thank God there is nothing to remember about 1972 yet.

  JOE BRAINARD

  FRIDAY

  DECEMBER 31ST

  1971

  Saturday, January 1st, 1972

  At this very moment I am in a taxi cab riding up Sixth Avenue one hour late for lunch with J. J. Mitchell and Ron Holland at “Charley O’s” with two small paintings beside me on the seat as New Year’s Day gifts for J. J. and Ron. This is unusual as I never eat lunch and I’m never an hour late. Well, maybe 1972 really will be a bit different!

  Thursday, January 13th, 1972

  The little blue flowers on my toilet paper this morning struck me as being more than a bit unnecessary. If not totally insane! When I buy toilet paper I just grab whatever kind is in front of me. (Which is to say that I didn’t mean to buy toilet paper with little blue flowers all over it.) Evidently I haven’t much to “say” today.

  Tuesday, January 25th, 1972

  French toast and bacon with Bruce this morning.

  Spent most of today correcting More I Remember proofs. And writing a new center section. And a new ending. Still not too happy with it tho. More “forced” than the first volume. More boring details. And not as much personal stuff. I hope people aren’t going to be disappointed.

  Very happy with a drawing I did of Alex Katz yesterday.

  Tomor
row I have a World cover to do (No. 25). Perhaps, Anne said, the last (sniff) issue.

  I’m doing so much work!

  Really feel wonderful. And crazy. And “tentative.”

  I feel very strongly that in all areas of my life I am walking on very thin ice.

  I know it can’t go on for much longer, but—

  These are crazy days and I am going right along with them, so help me God.

  Wednesday, February 16th, 1972

  The only good thing I can think of to say about El Topo is that it made me think that maybe I had been too hard on Satyricon.

  Friday, March 10th, 1972

  Today I dropped a giant green bottle of pink (and I do mean pink) (shocking pink) Vitamin B-12 pills all over my dirty bathroom floor: a mess I wish to make a point of totally ignoring (not picking up) until after my 30th birthday tomorrow.

  Saturday, March 25th, 1972

  The negro man at the health food store (always complaining about being so busy that he never has time to go down to the basement for “new stock”) said to me this morning, upon my buying my usual six Tiger’s Milk candy bars, “You’re going to turn into a tiger!”

  (Well, not every story is funny.)

  Only five more days to work on my show.

  J. J. called yesterday to tell me I might have syphilis.

  Shiny Ride (two cartoons by Kenward and me) just came out.

  This morning I finished my fourth etching (egg over easy with two strips of bacon) but I don’t like it.

  Tomorrow I draw Anne.

  Tonight is Chris.

  Sunday, April 2nd, 1972

  If you want to know what it’s like to have a rug pulled out from under you (don’t bother) (and besides, I’m sure you already know) try having a show. I’ve never felt so totally empty in all my life. So empty I don’t even feel bad (?). Actually, I do. I feel like shit!

  Wednesday, April 26th, 1972

  Tonight (stoned out of my mind again) I just a few minutes ago found myself walking up and down (back and forth) in my loft, madly eating a bag of dried apricots, feeling sorry for myself (lonely and bored) not enjoying them one bit. (The apricots.) Then I said to myself, “How stupid can you be! This is life! Eating these apricots! Right now!” So, having convinced myself that taking advantage of the moment is all there is, I tried focusing all my attention upon the pleasures of eating dried apricots. And it worked! For a few minutes. But then I started thinking about how I should write all this down. As I am doing now.

  This strikes me as a bit “cheap” somehow, but—but I guess I just don’t care.

  The “so what?” in me wins again.

  Monday, May 8th, 1972

  This morning (Westhampton) I wrote some letters and worked on that old red beach construction until I ran out of Elmer’s glue. Now it’s 1:30 and I guess I’ll try to tackle that Paris Review photo cartoon, even tho it’s the last thing in the world I feel like tackling. But I do believe in discipline, I guess. And besides, there is nothing else I especially want to do right now. Except maybe write. But I’m finding it very hard these days, writing. You know, the older I get the more I believe in nothing. (Like, for example, discipline.) But discipline is practical. (Practical, to me, means “less hurt!”)

  This gray weather is going to get to me if I don’t shut up.

  Tonight after supper we go back to the city.

  Sunday, May 21st, 1972

  The radio is predicting a sunny and warm day tomorrow for Nixon’s visit to Moscow.

  A Hungarian who says he is Jesus Christ took a hammer to the Pietà in Rome yesterday, knocking off an ear and an arm, and I forget what else.

  Got up this morning at nine.

  A great article in the Sunday News magazine section about how neurotic dogs have become, written by a dog psychiatrist.

  Some sketches again today for Anne’s book.

  It’s four o’clock now and at five Harris Schiff reads at “Remington’s.”

  Guess I’ll go get cleaned up.

  (You know, I’m trying to talk about something besides myself but, is this any improvement?)

  Tomorrow morning I draw David Hockney!

  Wednesday, June 7th, 1972

  I thought I was slipping into my thirties very gracefully, but (to make a long story short) evidently not.

  Saturday, June 10th, 1972

  Flash floods last night in South Dakota.

  “Impossible to estimate the damage.”

  “I saw a man hanging on desperately to his wife for as long as he could, then he just had to let go.”

  While on 9th Street I was feeling very much with Steve.

  And the rain—it was so nice. In a dark room. Not alone. (Thank you.)

  (Saying “thank you,” it does mean a lot. Just to be sure.)

  And I know absolutely nothing about South Dakota. Except that it’s right under North Dakota, I think.

  Yesterday was really hot. Way up in the 80s. And today, this morning, it’s cool and gray.

  Janis Joplin on the radio now.

  “Bobby McGee.”

  “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

  (No, Joe, that was last year!)

  Who in the fuck wants to be free?

  (Tho I can’t think of a nobler thing to try for.)

  You know, we really are so sweet, all of us!

  * * *

  So—what am I going to do today?

  I’m going to try to finish up work on the cover for Kenward’s Orchid Stories I hope.

  Mail this morning was a postcard from Bill. The Elliott Bill (slurp) in Italy.

  Boy do I look forward to Vermont.

  This head needs a rest.

  Tonight is dinner with Yvonne and Rudy at Steve. I mean, seven. Seven o’clock.

  ________

  *What a prick I am!

  Friday, June 16th, 1972

  At the Port Authority Bus Terminal half an hour early, as usual. (Hate to rush when traveling.) On my way to Vermont. Bus leaves at 10:30 a.m. and arrives in Montpelier at 7:00 p.m.

  A chunky (sexy) boy in a navy blue tee shirt walks by and I say to myself, “I’ll take two.”

  * * *

  In line now I am flirting with the idea of flirting with a blond youth right in front of me but, of course, I won’t. I love being “alone” on a bus.

  A very neat-looking pregnant lady in a bright turquoise sack dress is passing out fliers of some sort.

  Holy shit!

  Are you ready for this?

  * * *

  Hello, My name is Gloria

  I have a very beautiful message to give you and I would appreciate your attention.

  I have been very blessed to see God here on Earth in the Roman Catholic Church on the Altar during Mass in the human form of priests.

  I have also seen Him in the Protestant Church in England.

  God is Three Divine Persons, Our Father, Jesus and The Holy Spirit.

  God has sent me to tell you that this Christmas He will appear on Earth in all His glory.

  When He appears we will have no more wars. We will have a long beautiful era of peace here on Earth with God living among us.

  God’s Kingdom will be here on Earth.

  God will also remove from the Earth all sickness, all pain and all suffering.

  People who have had incurable diseases for many years will be completely cured.

  People will never get sick again. The blind will see and the crippled will walk.

  God is sending a sign very soon. The sign will be seen by the entire world at the same time.

  It will be such a tremendous and convincing sign that even Russia and China will be converted.

  The sign will be Our Lady of Fatima appearing in the sky.

  Every country in the world, every person in the world will believe in God as Three Divine Persons, Father, Son and Holy Spirit because of this sign.

  All God asks in return for all these wonderful gifts is your love.

 
He wants you to love Him with all your heart, all your soul and all your mind and to love your neighbor as yourself.

  God loves you very much. God Bless You.

  * * *

  On bus now. (Fuck!) Too many people. Which means no seat alone. Which means it will be hard to write. Fuck!

  * * *

  The creep sitting next to me (with a very large head) is returning from four years of service in California (“too many hippies”) to his hometown of Windsor, Vermont. (A surprise to his father for Father’s Day, as they don’t know he’s coming yet.) He has a 3½-year-old sister he’s never seen. He complains of having gotten a shave at a barber shop in the bus terminal that cost him $4.50.